


All Roads Led to the Library

by ladydoor, zetsubou69



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU: Library, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Librarian John Watson, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, tw: bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-31 04:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17842118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydoor/pseuds/ladydoor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubou69/pseuds/zetsubou69
Summary: Ex-army doctor John Watson, who just wants his PTSD to get better, got a job as a librarian at Barts Science Library. On an ordinary day, while he’s dealing with ordinary tasks, an extraordinary man in a tailored coat with beautiful hair and stunningly handsome features steps in and turns his life upside down in the most brilliant way.





	1. Chapter One

_Beep-beep! Beep-beep! Beep-beep!_

A hand attempted to smash the alarm-clock button, missed and tried again, successfully this time. John sat up on the bed with a groan. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He felt like shit, as he did nearly every morning. He got his legs on the floor and, hissing, tried to loosen up his right leg that went stiff during the night. When he was certain he could manage a few steps to the loo without the cane that was propped against the bedside table, he took off his t-shirt and got up to shower off the dried sweat from another night full of nightmares.

John performed his morning duties briskly but on autopilot. When he got dressed, he went to the window and peered to the sliver of autumn overcast sky he could see above the wall of the neighbouring building, which stood so close that covered almost all his view. He turned from the window and took in his tiny bedsit. Just a bed, a table with a chair, a worn-down sofa and a small wardrobe. His eyes fixed on the drawer of the bedside table.

Not today. Not yet.

He took his cane and strode from the flat to the bus stop.

*

The Barts Science Library was eerily quiet when John came in. He was the only staff, therefore it was up to him to come half an hour early every day and make sure everything was ready for its visitors. He opened the windows and let fresh air in. He could smell the rain in it but it hadn’t started yet. He made himself a cup of Earl Grey in the tiny kitchenette adjacent to an equally tiny back office. The computer on the front desk was humming quietly, as it started loading the Amlib system. John opened the book box, to which latecomers could return their books, and took out three books to check them in. Next, he went to prepare the interlibrary loans and ordered a courier to pick them up.

He was engrossed in cataloguing the additions left from yesterday when a round head with glasses and a friendly smile popped in the doorway.

“Good morning, John! Want anything in the cafeteria?”

John smiled and shook his head. “I’m good, Mike, I have some leftovers in the fridge.”

“Okay, see you later!”

Mike was the person who got John his job, a welcome supplement to his military pension. After he got invalided from Afghanistan, John couldn’t work as a doctor because everything connected with it, smells mostly, triggered his PTSD. In the midst of thinking he would have to leave London, he met Mike in the park. They chatted, Mike told him about the job and later recommended John to the position.

John found out he liked the job. It required some moving around but not much, so he could rest his leg. The presence of books around him was calming and he also got to meet people and help them with their enquiries, which was satisfying. He liked helping people.

He was grateful to Mike. Not only for the job but for his good-naturedness and optimism. He was always there when John needed somebody to talk to or to go for a beer with.

John didn’t have much time to think after that because first visitors filled the library - mostly medical students in the search for their textbooks, as the autumn term just began - and they required his assistance.

*

“What part of ‘I’m not moving into that posh house of yours’ didn’t you understand?! … No. … No! … Don’t bring mommy into this, Mycroft! … All right, forget I asked for anything!”

Sherlock would hurl the phone against the nearest wall, except he didn’t have spare money for a new one. He was seething. There he was, thinking that for once Mycroft would help him without imposing his demands on him. “Never again,” he told himself firmly.

He could do this without help. He didn’t need Mycroft’s money. True, his own odd jobs only barely sufficed for this pathetic excuse for a flat but at least he didn’t have to listen to anyone.

 _Only if you won’t get evicted because of the constant explosions and foul-smelling experiments_ , said the annoyingly haughty voice in his head.

He gritted his teeth. “Shut up, Mycroft!”

Time to think. He could make money and buy the books he needed but that would take at least some time and effort and he couldn’t spare either. Or, if he couldn’t get his own books, he could use the library. He remembered that one of the hospitals should have a nice, science specialized library.

_How dreadfully pedestrian…_

“Shut! Up!”

Sherlock checked the opening hours of Barts Science Library online and went to shower. It was much needed because he somehow forgot to take care of his transport (dull) during his latest experiment, which should prove one Mortimer Jacobs guilty of a murder that happened in 1953. One would say that the solution of the murder so old was not really important but that would be wrong. It was vital for Sherlock who was currently engaged in writing the book on solving Britain’s most famous unsolvable cold cases. That would show the world how brilliant he was!

Sherlock emerged from the shower and went to search for clean clothes. He opened the wardrobe and had to chuckle. In the flat that was almost completely void of furniture but stuffed with things vital for his experiments, some of which were maybe developing their own political system already, was a wardrobe full of bespoke clothes, freshly cleaned and pressed. It was the only condition his mother managed to enforce on him when he moved to London. He had to represent the family, therefore it was not possible to dress like a vagrant. She got him an open account at one of London’s most established tailors. He would lie to himself if he denied he liked how good his slim frame looked in tailored suits. And he sure loved his Belstaff coat more than was healthy.

He checked the Petri dishes on the table and, satisfied with their development, left the flat. He froze mid-step in the doorway. There was a perfectly innocently looking envelope lying on the threshold right in front of him. Sherlock knew exactly what was inside, he would recognize the envelope paper everywhere. Well, that was fast. He picked it up and tore it up to tiny pieces. The phone in his pocket started to ring. Sherlock huffed. _Having cameras here now, Mycroft? No need, my neighbour is nosy enough._ He turned his phone off because he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with his brother anymore. He had books to lose himself in and later some experiments to conduct. They were his life’s only joys, something his brother could not understand. He crossed the landing, for once without hearing steps behind the neighbour’s door.

*

Sherlock loitered in front of the library. Now that he was actually here he didn’t want to go in. He remembered the libraries from his childhood. There was one in their village, governed by an annoying old lady who prevented him from visiting the adult section and refusing to lend him the medical textbooks he found so fascinating. No wonder, he was five, but he still felt resentful all those years later.

At the elementary school, the head librarian hated him because he returned his books constantly late and damaged. In fact, that didn’t change, he was the same at the university. He may have paid more for the library fines than for his tuition. The librarians looked the same too. He could swear they were clones but so far he had no proof. And now he was about to meet another one. He shuddered but steeled himself and strode in.

*****

John ran his hand over his face. That was tedious. One would say that working in a specialized library would save you from “I don’t know the name of the book but I know it was blue!” but it didn’t. However, he was really proud that he managed to help the scatterbrained scientist locate the desired tome. He thought he would take a breather but right at that moment, the door swung open and in barged a tall person in a long dark overcoat, which was blowing behind him.

In a few long strides, the stranger was at the front desk. John stood up. The first thing he noticed when the stranger came closer, was the curls. Because seriously, they couldn’t be overlooked. They were sticking from the man’s head in every direction and looked as if they were still wet from the shower. When the smell of soap reached John’s nostrils, his hypothesis was confirmed.

The next thing John noted was the determined and a bit intimidating expression on the stranger’s face. And the set of sharp cheekbones. And his beautiful eyes, the colour of which John couldn’t pinpoint.

 _Right_ , John thought. _Let’s hope this absolutely gorgeous man won’t be a complete arsehole._

“What can I do for you?” John smiled politely.

*

Sherlock was a bit taken aback that instead of an expected old lady there was a short middle-aged man. However, he fulfilled the expected visual cliché: an ugly but soft-looking cardigan with elbow-patches over a button-down and corduroy trousers. The haircut was off though, too short and precise, but Sherlock dismissed it as irrelevant.

When the man smiled at him and spoke, Sherlock noted that, unlike those lady librarians, he was polite and his voice didn’t sound like nails on the chalkboard. Nevertheless, in his nervous determination, he rattled off the list of books he wished to check without stopping for air.

The librarian’s eyebrow shot up. “Whoa, slow down, please. First, I cannot type that fast; second, can I have your library card?”

“My what?”

“Your library card. You know, that thing people bring in the library if they want to borrow some books?” He sounded amused now.

“Oh. I don’t have one.”

“No problem, we will get you one. You just fill,” he rummaged under the desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, “this. Here is a pen.”

Sherlock eyed the form in distaste. Why had it to be so complicated?

“Can I just read the books here without… that?”

“No form, no card. No card, no books,” the librarian said and pointed to the nearby table. “You can sit over there. Come to me when you are done and I’ll take your photo.”

“My photo?! Is it necessary?”

“Believe me, I’m not doing it for my pleasure,” the librarian said dryly and gestured to the small queue that formed behind Sherlock.

Sherlock emitted a long sigh and plopped down to the seat. He began to fill the form but kept an eye on the librarian. He moved behind the counter with efficient precision. When he went to show the location of a book to the customer, he walked with a limp and used a cane. However, when he had to move a stack of heavy books from the counter a few steps far, he managed it just fine without help. _Interesting_.

*

When the handsome stranger filled the form, John entered the data ( _Sherlock Holmes, what an odd name_ ) into the system and led him to the elevated part of the front desk, on which the camera stood on the tripod. It was operated remotely from the computer.

“Alright, Mr Holmes, can you look straight into the camera?”

Holmes rolled his eyes but obliged. John observed him on the computer. _Photogenic bastard_ , he thought.

“You can smile a bit.”

Holmes frowned.

“Nevermind.” John snapped the photo. “All done. Just a minute till the machine prints your card. Now, what were these books you wanted to borrow? And _slower_ this time, please.”

Holmes recited the titles again, marginally slower, and John checked them in the computer. “We have four of them here now, two I have to order from the storeroom and the rest we don’t have but can get to you through interlibrary loans in a few days. Will this be okay with you?”

“If it must…”

 _Jesus_ , John thought. _So much for my wish for one good looking bloke with MANNERS_.

“Wait here, please, I will get the books we have here for you.”

*

Initially, Sherlock wanted to take the books to his flat but now the prospect of warm, quiet, nice smelling library seemed more appealing to him than his cold ugly flat.

“Can I study them here?” he asked when the librarian returned with four books in one hand, leaning on the cane.

“Of course. There is a nice desk under the window over there.”

Sherlock sat and the librarian handed him the books. The sleeve of his shirt moved up and there was a suntan line visible. _Of course!_

“You were a soldier!” Sherlock exclaimed, excited.

The librarian froze and frowned. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock knew that he shouldn’t say that but couldn’t help himself: “You’re an Army doctor who has been invalided home from Afghanistan and your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

A few readers from the neighbouring desks looked up at them.

 _Fuck_ , Sherlock thought. _You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?_

The librarian looked shocked but quickly recovered: “I would really prefer if you didn't broadcast it so loudly, please. But how on earth can you know that?”

He didn’t seem angry but Sherlock checked just to be sure, lowering his voice: “You really want to know?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t happen every day that a complete stranger reveals your past to you, does it?”

Sherlock smirked. “I guess not. Well, your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Former soldier working at Barts, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp is really bad when you walk but you can move heavy books a few steps without the cane, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan.”

“You said I had a therapist.”

Sherlock huffed. “You’ve got a psychosomatic limp – _of course_ you’ve got a therapist.”

The librarian looked at him in awe. “That… was amazing.”

Sherlock didn’t know what he expected but he sure didn’t expect this and he felt his cheek warming. “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’.”

The librarian laughed quietly and extended his hand. “I’m John, by the way.”

Sherlock shook it. “Nice to meet you, John. Call me Sherlock, please.”

John smiled and Sherlock watched, mesmerized, the wrinkles that formed in the corners of his eyes. “I’ll let you here with your books. If you need anything, I’ll be at the front desk.”

Sherlock nodded. In his head, John’s voice echoed. _That was amazing. Quite extraordinary._ He felt warm and it had nothing to do with the radiator nearby. He shook his head and dived into a forensics book.


	2. Chapter Two

Sherlock became a regular at BSL. However, there was nothing regular in his habits. Sometimes, he arrived among the first readers in the morning and left only when John turned off the lights in the evening, so absorbed that he ignored everything around him. Sometimes, he came in several times a day. Sometimes, he crashed in like a madman, checked the information in one book and dashed off as if a life depended on it. _Then again,_ John thought, _maybe it did._ And sometimes, and John hated those days, he didn’t appear at all.

Today, luckily, wasn’t that day. Sherlock was the first person waltzing through the door, curls bouncing and John found that he was genuinely glad to see the mad genius, as he began to nickname Sherlock in his head.

Like every day, Sherlock sat at the desk under the window where John seated him that first time. John gave himself an imaginary pat on the shoulder because that place offered a direct, undisturbed view from John’s spot at the front desk. He could look, right? He knew that this man was out of his league (Hell, his coat alone was worth a month or two of his rent) but it couldn’t prevent him from window shopping, could it? If somebody told him that he was developing a crush on Sherlock, John would laugh. He would laugh and then he would deny it. Because John Watson didn’t do crushes. He also didn’t do relationships. Especially not now, when it took him all his willpower to go through another day alive.

John stole a glance or two and then turned to today’s task. He postponed this long enough. He eyed the trolley stuffed with leather-bound tomes and then looked at the place where these books belonged. Up. Way way up. Like 13 feet up. BSL was an architecturally interesting place (translation: it was a bloody nightmare). For the most part, it was a regular room, but it had a big nook that reached to the second floor. Two sides were walls mounted with shelves and two were glass panels so that the people sitting in the hospital cafeteria on the second floor could have a soul-elevating view of the old books when eating their croissants.

The shelves were accessible via a ladder that was moving in the rails built into the shelves. The library stacked there 19th-century medical treatises that almost nobody wanted to check, but unfortunately, some medical history scholar requested them for his dissertation a few weeks ago. With a sigh, John moved the trolley to the wall. He grabbed a small backpack, stuffed the first book into it and put it on his chest. He positioned the ladder, inhaled and gripped the handrail.

“I don’t think so,” said the rich voice behind him.

Startled, John turned and found Sherlock standing right there.

“Sorry?”

“You aren’t climbing up there, with your leg.”

It wasn’t a question. Sherlock shed his jacket, moved John firmly sideways and climbed the ladder like a monkey.

“Sherl- Wait! You can’t go there! What if something happened to you?! I could be in trouble...”

Sherlock simply looked at him and stretched out his hand. “The book, John.”

With a resigned sigh, John handed him the book and quickly found out that if he got in trouble, it would be definitely worth it. From his spot on the floor, he had a perfect view of Sherlock’s long legs in fitted trousers. When Sherlock climbed up and down, the muscles on his thighs moved in the most interesting way. And God, that ass! How somebody so thin could have an ass so round, was beyond John.

The constant movement of Sherlock’s arms caused his slim-fit shirt to stretch and ride up a bit and reveal a sliver of pale skin contrasting with the dark fabric of his trousers. John imagined what it would be like to touch it. He mentally slapped himself when he realized that he was ogling his oblivious customer who just wanted to help him. _How old are you, sixteen?_

Too soon were all the books properly stacked and Sherlock climbed down. John cleared his throat.

“That was… I mean, thank you,” he said but Sherlock was already engrossed in his book, completely ignoring him.

_Right_ , John thought, moving the trolley back to the front desk. He would really want to thank Sherlock but how?

At that moment, a young pathologist walked in.

“Molly!” John exclaimed. “How are you? I have got the studies you’ve requested.”

The petite woman smiled at him. “That’s amazing, John! I didn’t think they come so soon.”

John leaned over the front desk and whispered: “Listen, Molly, can you do something for me? Can you bring me a coffee from the cafeteria?”

“Sure thing! Why are you whispering?”

John’s eyes involuntarily skipped to Sherlock and Molly followed the movement.

“Oh! It’s for him, isn’t it?” She chuckled. “I have to say you have a good taste, he is handsome and kinda cute! Look at those curls!”

“Molly!” John hissed but had to smile. “I just want to thank him for something he did for me. Nothing more!”

“Tsk tsk… I see right through you!” And with that, she was gone.

John had already noticed that Sherlock never ate or drink anything in the library. Of course, it was forbidden to snack over the books but the library had a nice corner where you could eat your sandwich without the necessity to leave the premises. And you could have a drink at your desk if it was secured against spilling. Sherlock didn’t drink even if he was sitting in the library all day. John marked it off as another one from the lanky genius’s eccentricities, of which he had more than enough.

Molly danced in with the coffee. She put it on the desk and winked at John: "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I mean, I might tell the corpses but those won't definitely tell anyone."

John blushed. “Get lost,” he gave her the studies and shooed her away, laughing quietly.

He waited till the door closed behind her and then brought the coffee to Sherlock’s desk.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you drink anything all day. You can have a cuppa here, you know. Do you realize that the brain is a goo that works on water? Here, you must be parched. And err… thanks for earlier.”

Sherlock muttered something that could be “thank you” but didn’t even raise his head. John stood there for a moment but eventually returned to the front desk. He was a bit disappointed but what had he expected? Luckily, he had to deal with a bunch of students and didn’t have much time to brood.

After an hour or so John looked at Sherlock and found him examining the cup with a confused frown on his face. He was even glancing around as if he tried to spot an undercover coffee agent who had put the cup on his desk. John took pity and went to him.

“It was me. I thought you even thanked me, you don’t remember?”

“Oh,” Sherlock made an utterly adorable face of sudden understanding and nodded. “I guess I was in my mind palace.”

“Your what?”

“It’s a- Look, John, I have to finish this but I can tell you later if you’re interested?”

John nodded.

“And... thanks for this,” he took the cup, downing it in one gulp, and made an appropriately disgusted face of somebody who just drank a cup of cold coffee with all the sugar at the bottom.

*

There wasn’t much time to chat with John the following week because as the autumn term was almost over, the library was full of students. The afternoons were almost impossible there. However, it was still better than his mouldy flat with windows that had been last repaired sometime in the 19th century. And there was no John in his flat. Sherlock got to like the small librarian. He was polite and listened to him and was impressed by his deductions. And it was… nice.

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn’t extinguish the warmth he felt every time John complimented his intelligence when they got to chat about something random. _Damn sentiment!_

Sherlock arrived at the library already annoyed because he had another phone call with Mycroft, this time about Mummy’s birthday celebration. His brother didn’t forget to remind him to get a haircut and to dress properly. “I’m not a child, Mycroft!” One day, he would actually smash the phone.

He entered the library, picked up his books but when he went to his seat, he found it occupied. Also, the seat opposite was occupied. _Brilliant, just brilliant._ He looked around properly and found only one free spot in the middle of a group of students. He felt sick just from the thought of working there.

John came back to the desk with an armful of books. Sherlock caught his eyes and John frowned.

“Is something wrong?”

“I cannot work here,” Sherlock sounded distressed even to his own ears.

“Why not? There is a free seat over there.”

“There are people there,” he spat the word as an insult.

“Well, yes, but they are quiet, you know that we have a strict keep silent policy here.”

“I can hear them thinking! I cannot concentrate in this… madhouse.”

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “All right, grab your books and come with me,” he said and led Sherlock through the small door to the back office.

“I could get fired for this,” he muttered as he moved the stacks of papers and binders from the small desk. “Here, would it be to Your Highness’s liking?”

Sherlock was a bit embarrassed and managed just: “It will do.”

“Oh, God forbid that I would get a thank you,” John huffed but it didn’t sound angry. He pointed to the kitchenette with a kettle, some chipped mugs and a box of PG tips. “In case you want something to drink. Now, I really have to get back to work. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, John. Just let me know when you’re leaving please,” Sherlock smiled timidly at John and dived into the book on vermins in London. He was interested in foxes today.

*

John didn’t think once about the madman during the day, he simply didn’t have time. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who found the exam period taxing. Only when the door closed after the last student, he remembered he hadn’t noticed Sherlock leaving. He locked the entrance and went to the back office. He found him there, just not as he imagined.

Sherlock was sleeping on the table, a cheek on his folded arms, the coat hung loosely over his shoulders. John forgot that the back office wasn’t heated because he almost never used it.

_He looks so peaceful!_ John thought and went to put the kettle on. Luckily it wasn’t one of those modern supersmart beeping beasts. He didn’t want to wake Sherlock up yet. His face was calm, the perpetual frown that wrinkled his forehead gone. His lips were partly open and John could hear him snoring lightly.

John made two cups of tea and set them on the table. Then he shook Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Morning, sunshine, the library is closed.”

Sherlock mumbled sleepily, then abruptly opened his eyes.

“Oh God. I’m so sorry! I must have fallen asleep. How long did I-?”

“No idea. But it’s 5 o’clock - the closing time,” John smiled.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and rose. “Right. Sorry again. I’ll just go.”

John pressed on Sherlock's shoulder to indicate he should sit back down. “No need. Here, I made us tea, you must be thirsty. I sure know I am.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Sherlock sipped from the mug.

“So, what exactly are you researching? I thought I would get the idea eventually but your book selection is so random…”

“Cold cases. I’m solving them and I’m writing a book about it. You see, even the years after you can pinpoint where the investigation went wrong because some witless simpleton didn’t do his work properly. I solved like half of the most famous cold cases, but it’s slow work because I need to experiment and I don’t have the right equipment and space and access to some… things. I’m thinking about renting a lab but I can do that only at the end because I have to save time and do all the experiments at once and I don’t know yet which ones will be needed.”

“What things do you need access to?”

Sherlock blinked. “Bodies. Dead. Tissue samples. Some chemicals you can’t get over the counter.”

“Oh.”

“You can get many things if you know where and how. You would be amazed.”

Sherlock looked so smug John had to chuckle. “But… foxes?”

The tall man looked sheepish for a moment. John found it incredibly adorable. “I have to admit I got carried away. They are amazing. But I know they are involved in something! I just don’t know what. They shouldn’t be so widespread. I wonder if we ever get racoons, now that would cause an uproar!”

They looked at each other, smiling. It seemed that neither of them wanted to go home. Sherlock got up first.

“Dinner? I still owe you for this.”

“Starving,” John said and his stomach confirmed it with loud rumbling.

Sherlock grinned. “Come on, I know a fantastic Italian restaurant.”

Sherlock hailed them a cab as soon as they stepped out, gesturing to John to get in. He rattled facts about his cold cases with a complete disregard for oxygen and John interspersed it with awed interjections. He had already realized that praise was what made Sherlock tick and he wanted to milk the opportunity and get to know more about the extraordinary man.

*

They barely sat down at the table by the window when Angelo rushed to welcome them. Of course, he had to tell John everything about Sherlock clearing his name from murder.

“That’s what you do? Recreationally saving people from going to prison?” John asked when the restaurant owner clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and left them alone with the menu.

“He _did_ go to prison, for burglary,” Sherlock corrected him. “Well, yes, occasionally. I help them, they help me. Barter, if you will.”

“And you get what, a lifetime’s worth of free dinners?”

“In this case, yes. Or some stuff from the pharmacy in exchange for paperwork. Or cash, like when I returned a stray dog to its owner because I know every homeless person in the area and they spotted it hiding. Free pizza when I got the delivery guy out of trouble with authorities.”

“It seems to me you are wasting your potential,” John frowned. When Sherlock bristled, he quickly continued. “I mean, you are brilliant. Your deduction skills and all… Why don’t you work as a detective?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m not good with following orders and obeying superiors. I like my freedom too much.”

John acknowledged the point with humming. “You could be a consultant.”

Sherlock leaned forward, animated. “The police don’t consult amateurs, John! That’s why I’m writing my book. To prove myself, make myself known. I have a website and I sometimes get to solve a case through it but it’s not enough. Also, I tend to discourage potential clients, you know,” he gestured to himself. He suddenly had enough of self-probing: “And why are you hiding in the library?”

*

John inhaled sharply as the tables were turned on him. He should have known that Sherlock was seeing right through him. He suddenly found hard to breathe, as if a firm band constricted his chest. His vision swam and a wave of fear crashed over him.

“I… I...”

Sherlock looked alarmed. He leaned over the table and squeezed John’s hand.

“John! You are here, with me. Breathe with me. Inhale... Exhale… Nice and slow. Everything is OK. I’m here.”

John tried to focus on Sherlock’s voice, which dropped lower than usual in an effort to calm him down. His touch grounded him and he gradually calmed enough that he was able to breathe almost normally.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have pried,” Sherlock mumbled.

“No, that’s fine. You didn’t know. Hell, I didn’t know either,” John said shakily. “I mean.. I know my triggers but this was so unexpected…”

John was acutely aware that Sherlock didn’t let go of his hand and he desperately didn’t want the other man to realize this. He thought that if he didn’t move his hand Sherlock wouldn’t notice and he would enjoy the enveloping warmth and solidness of Sherlock’s palm on his hand a little longer.

They were interrupted by Angelo, who came over, put a tea candle between them and lit it up.

“I got you a candle, it’s more romantic,” he winked at them and sauntered away.

They looked at each other, not moving. Then Sherlock did the most unexpected thing. He began to laugh. There was a rumble in his chest and his shoulders started to shake. He pressed his mouth into a thin line as he tried to suppress it but soon the laughter overcame his defences and bubbled out.

John stared at Sherlock in utter amazement for a moment but it wasn’t possible not to laugh at the sight of it. Soon they were both giggling. Sherlock recovered first and, wiping the tears from his eyes, said: “I have to admit that Angelo is anything but subtle.”

John snorted. Sherlock picked up the menu.

“Shall we order? I sweat the linguini here are to die for. Well, not literally, since dying might prevent you from actually enjoying the meal, but close enough. It’s the lamb. And the seasoning. The only one who even gets close to that is Mrs Hudson, but she was married to a mafia boss from the south of Italy, as cliché as it sounds,” he went back to rattling the information at lightspeed. It seemed to John that he wanted to cover his nervousness. He wasn’t ready to address the issue further either, so he just went on with the chatter.

*

Two hours or so later they were standing in front of the restaurant, waiting for a cab.

“...you didn’t!” John giggled.

“I did and he was so sur-” Sherlock’s words died mid-sentence as a big black car with blackened windows pulled over in front of them. His mood changed abruptly and his jaw clenched.

“Sorry, John, I have to go.”

“What-”

“I’ll explain later, okay? Listen, John, I really enjoyed the evening. See you in the library,” Sherlock said and got in the car.

John’s protective instinct kicked in but Sherlock didn’t seem afraid, more like extremely pissed off, so he let him go. John didn’t see the interior of the car very well as it was dark, but he thought he spotted a man and a woman sitting there.

The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut, was: “Why are you ruining my date, Mycroft?”

_Oh._


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit short but we will make it up to you, pinky promise.

Sherlock didn’t appear in the library the following day. John was worried, given the abrupt departure the previous evening. He dug up Sherlock’s registration form and texted him.

_Hi, it’s John. From the library. Are you OK?_

_I’m fine. Family business. Tedious. Be back on Monday. SH_

John sighed with relief. In fact, it was quite convenient because he had errands to run. Also, he couldn’t get that word out of his head. _Date_. Could it be that Sherlock really considered that dinner as their date? What did he see in the shabby short librarian hiding here, as he correctly pointed out, from the world outside? That brilliant, gorgeous man in posh clothes with an even more posh accent and lips to die for? When John looked in the mirror in the mornings, all he saw was wrinkles on the forehead, bags under the eyes, ugly scar on the shoulder and soft belly. His clothes rendered him practically invisible, which was exactly what he wanted.

And yet, it seemed that Sherlock liked to spend time with John. They chatted about random things, Sherlock sometimes even helped John with shelving when he needed to stretch his legs, as he put it. And was that John’s imagination or was Sherlock standing closer on these occasions than was strictly necessary? So close that John could smell his soap and something so distinctly _Sherlock_ , that all he wanted was to bury his nose in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and breathe.

*

At five, John locked the library and went to visit Molly in the morgue. He found her investigate tissue samples of rather fascinating poisoning and they spent a while chatting about some interesting autopsies she had recently worked on. She then fluently changed topic in that adorable nervous way of hers and told John about her new hobby - youtube makeup tutorials.

“...it entertains me but I think I’ll quit. It’s not like those,” she gestured to the wall of freezers, “can be bothered, can they? And I’m not Abby from NCIS anyway.”

John assumed that Abby is some kind of youtube celebrity. “Nonsense! You really have to stop selling yourself short. You are a lovely lady, Molly, and any man will be lucky to have you!”

Molly narrowed her eyes. “That’s nice of you. Almost too nice. What’s up, John, spill the beans.”

 _So much for inconspicuous approach_ , John sighed.

“I’d like to ask you a favour. Not for me, for a friend of mine.”

“Is he by any chance tall, dark and handsome? That coffee guy from the library..?” she teased him.

John groaned and nodded. “He’s so incredibly smart. But he’s doing research about some things… and he needs some space. Workspace. If possible, even access to not strictly available things.”

“I hope you’re not asking me to get drugs!”

“No! My god, Molly, no! He is solving cold cases. Murders. He wants the truth to be out there. To prove that some people are innocent and send the real killers to prison. And to prove he is clever, obviously.”

“Why doesn’t he work with police if he’s so smart?”

“Well, he says he’s really bad with superiors. And I think that’s an understatement. He’s just… very unconventional. Acquired taste.”

“Acquired taste? I bet you’ve got a taste for it already.”

“It’s not like that! I just really want to help him. Because…,” John hesitated, realizing how truthful was what he was about to say, “him being my friend… it’s helping me too.”

“So. What would your unconventional friend really need from me?”

“Lab space and access to dead bodies donated in the name of science?”

Molly considered it for a while. “John Watson, you’ll owe me so much. But I think you’d be really cute together, so I’ll figure something out. Can he work with an unconventional schedule as well? I mean, there might be visits from the police - but they usually visit during the official office hours, so if he’s a night owl, it might be possible to arrange something.”

“You’re my hero, Molly.”

“Then this hero wants one more bottle of that yummy wine we had for Halloween and some nice chocolate. For starters.”

“You got it.”

With Mike, it was even easier, a good-natured chap he was. He dismissed John’s concerns about Sherlock’s personality with a wave of his hand: “John, I teach here. I can manage one more arrogant sod, trust me. Give him my number and we will make it work.”

“Thanks, Mike, I really owe you.”

“Yeah, you owe me a pint where you will tell me everything about this new man in your life, that’s for sure.”

John was still blushing when he reached the Barts main gate. But he felt really good about himself. He was so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed a big black car parked at the gate until a beautiful dark haired-woman got out and held the door open.

“Hello, Dr Watson. Get in the car, please.”


	4. Chapter Four

Saturday morning, John was still seething. On Sunday, he was fuming. And on Monday, he was positively livid.

What had the fresh Hell happened?

Unfortunately, he had no way of getting an answer at this moment as he did not want to discuss it through text messages, so he did what every employed person does. He made himself look presentable, put on a neutral face, and went to work. As always, it helped him a bit, work had this magical ability to steer his mind away from his worries at least for some time. There was no room for thinking about yourself when you were shelving ten-pound books or reaming out students’ asses for being overdue with their book loans.

Time flew fast and as it got dark outside and people hurried to put on their clothes and leave before he kicks them out because the closing time was nearing, John spotted familiar curls and a dark coat in the doorway.

Sherlock walked in with his usual ‘I don’t care about anything and anyone’ air around him and made his way to John’s desk.

“Hello,” he greeted John.

“Hello, Sherlock. Do you need any books? We’re closing.”

“Not today. I came to see you.”

But John’s fury couldn’t be forgotten so easily: “In that case, I’m still on the clock and busy.”

The shock on Sherlock’s face made John realise that the idiotic genius had no idea how upset he was. He sighed and continued: “If you want to talk, wait until my shift’s over. I have some time afterwards.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again and went to his usual seat with a book he picked from the shelf at random. John tried to focus on his tasks but he noticed apprehensive glances Sherlock was casting at him.

When John finished, he locked the door and came to Sherlock’s desk, spun the chair opposite and sat down. Sherlock observed him with wide eyes. John sighed.

“Who are you involved with, Sherlock? On Friday, I was just on my way home when some posh spooks bagged me as if I was a criminal and they were bloody MI5 and threatened me and asked me to spy on you!”

“Are you hurt?” Sherlock ignored John’s words and rose to check whether John was injured in any (new) way.

“No they did not harm me, but you’re not answering my question! Who are you involved with? That cartel you mentioned? Some terrorist organisation? MI6? Witness protection? The bloody British government?!”

“The British government, I’m afraid. I sincerely apologise for my brother’s behaviour. He believes that just because he can control whole countries he may take the same courtesies with my life.”

“Your brother… are you serious?”

Sherlock nodded.

“He’s overly controlling. Avoiding him is my full-time occupation. Or perhaps, just an avocation.”

“So… your brother can just randomly kidnap and interrogate citizens anytime he wants to?”

“Yes.”

“And he can threaten people with bodily harm? And ask them to spy on his brother?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Do we really have to keep talking about him? Now that you know it’s my brother you should feel safer because I can tell you that his bark is worse than his bite. He would not bodily harm you. That might be considered a workout and Mycroft hates exercise more than he loves strawberry scones.”

John started giggling. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” Sherlock said dryly. “Although usually the word ‘asshole’ is added. So… we are good?”

“Yeah, we are. And now that I know you aren’t a terrorist or something, I have some good news for you.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s face lit up.

“Let’s get dinner, shall we? I’m famished and there is a good Chinese just around the corner.”

“John!”

“What?”

“What is it? The news?” Sherlock looked like a puppy that glimpsed a new toy.

“You’ll see,” John chuckled, secretly melting from the adorableness.

“John!!!”

*

The bistro was packed, so they sat at the bar. By the time they ordered their dinner, Sherlock was  _ bouncing _ on his stool. John wouldn’t have believed it, hadn’t he seen it with his own eyes. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to steady him.

“Okay. What if I told you that I got you the place to experiment in and the bodies to experiment on?”

“What? Where?! How?”

“Here at Barts. I pulled some strings...”

“Oh, John! It’s Christmas!”

Suddenly, John had the mad genius all over him. He barely blinked before the hug was over and Sherlock was back sitting on his stool, blushing.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

John covered Sherlock’s hand and interlaced their fingers. He looked at Sherlock somewhat sternly.

“But. You have to promise me you’ll behave. These people are my closest friends. I know how rude you can be. So, no deductions about their personal life, no insults, okay?” he squeezed Sherlock’s hand for emphasis.

Sherlock looked at their hands and back to John. “I promise.”

*

True to his promise John delivered the wine right after his paycheck. Armed with an expensive bottle, casserole, a box of chocolates, and his friendship with Molly, he rang the doorbell and waited for her to let him in.

It was the beginning of February and Sherlock had found a comfortable place at Barts by then (it really didn’t take much time) and it was time to pay his debts like some house from a fantasy series, or so they said on TV everywhere nowadays.

Molly greeted him in her tiny apartment, obviously just arrived after a long shift, same as him. John himself had no time to stop by at home on his way here, he merely picked up the food.

“I come bearing gifts,” he declared dramatically and Molly giggled.

“It’s about time! I was almost afraid I would have to remind you of your promises,” she said jokingly.

“I’m sorry about that but I had to wait for a paycheck.”

She nodded understandingly and set the table.

“I hope Sherlock is behaving himself. I’d almost swear you see him more often than I do.”

“Well, he’s always working, not really a fan of chatting. Not even polite chatting. But he let me take a peek at some of his research and I have to agree with you, it’s absolutely fascinating.”

John poured the wine and they dug into the casserole. He swallowed a bite and then pointed the fork at Molly: “By the way, how’s your detective doing?”

“Oh, shush, he’s not  _ my  _ detective,” she sighed. “Detective Inspector Lestrade stops by every other day, to check on the progress of our work. I mean, he builds the cases on the evidence we provide so I get that it’s important to him to supervise that too.”

“Molly, bloke doesn’t visit a morgue for that, I’m telling you. He can get all that info by email nowadays or send some poor sod instead.”

“I mean he’s really dreamy and all… but I hear he’s got a wife. I would hate to be the second woman, so it’s not worth it…”

John nodded understandingly. His uncertainty about Sherlock’s preferences was one of the reasons he hadn’t yet pursued anything either. Although from some signals he began to think he could try.


	5. Chapter Five

True to his word, Sherlock behaved, if only because he simply ignored anyone. He was in his element. In the mornings, he researched in the library, afternoons he spent in the lab with Mike and from time to time, Molly would take him to the morgue. Apart from his research, she also showed him some interesting cases but mostly she let him work undisturbed.

He was so grateful to John. With this, his research was much more efficient and soon, he was missing only a few, most difficult cases. It warmed him that John went such lengths for him. They spent many evenings together, going for dinner or just roaming around London. Sherlock showed John his favourite views and John was appropriately impressed.

Sherlock managed to avoid meeting the police in the morgue for a month or so. And when it came, it came on the worst day possible.

In that morning, Sherlock was woken by his landlord.

“Mr Holmes, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave the flat immediately. Your experiments, I can put up with, but shooting a gun in the flat is  _ a bit  _ too much.”

“It was for an experiment!” Sherlock said. “I needed to see how far the fragments-”

The landlord interrupted him: “I wouldn’t care even if it was for world peace of if voices told you to do it! You almost gave Mrs Fitzpatrick a heart attack!”

Sherlock gritted his teeth.  _ That old hag, of course, it was her. _

“I want you out by this evening. Also, I called your brother to be sure everything goes without a scene.”

“What? Why? No!” Sherlock exclaimed. He didn't understand what the problem was and it frustrated him. It was perfectly safe, he couldn't shoot anybody. He didn't shoot the wall, he even wore protective glasses and the noise was negligible in comparison with techno parties that were raging almost every day from the flat above him.

The landlord barely left when Mycroft strode into the flat, two big men in his train.

“Brother mine,” he sighed. “Can’t you simply behave just for a little while?”

“Piss off, Mycroft!”

Mycroft ignored him and turned to his gorillas. “Pack all this. Clean the flat and repair what needs to be repaired.” He lifted one mug from the table and peered into it with disgust. “You may want to use gloves, some of these things are probably alive.”

“Don’t touch my stuff!” Sherlock shouted.

Mycroft’s voice got that steely edge it used to when he was really angry: “Calm down. I’m not going to go through your things. I’m going to store them at my house until you find a new flat. I will have a room prepared for you even though I know you are not going to accept my offer to stay for a few days. So I suggest you pack a weekender and go to talk to  _ your  _ Dr Watson.”

They were staring at each other for a few very tense seconds. Sherlock was the first to break eye contact.

“Fine.”

“The keys and the gun,” Mycroft held up his hand.

Sighing, Sherlock removed the flat and the house keys from the keyring and dropped them to his palm. The gun followed. Mycroft unloaded it with practised ease.

A moment later his phone rang. It was Molly. Sherlock picked it up. “Yes?”

“Sherlock, I’ve got you the liver you needed. Man, fifty-five, cirrhotic,” she sounded excited.

“Great, be right there.” He hung up. He packed a few things into the bag and left Mycroft without a word. He would go to the morgue first, calm down over the liver specimen Molly got him and then he would go to see John.  _ Good. _

*

Sherlock stashed his bag under the table in the morgue and engrossed himself in the experiment. The organ was perfect, exactly as he needed. The results were coming loud and clear.

“Amazing! Molly,” he gestured to her to take a look.

They were peering to the microscope when somebody cleared his throat behind them.

“Am I disturbing something?”

“Yes,” Sherlock didn’t even raise his head.

“No!” Molly spun around.

Sherlock looked at the man. He would have probably come across as likeable if he hadn’t had a scowl of monumental proportions plastered on his face. Sherlock knew he was a DI even before Molly addressed him as such.

“Who’s that?”

“Sherlock Holmes. He’s writing a book, so we’re lending him some lab space here so he can finish it.”

“Book about what?”

“Obscure cold cases,” said Molly in her incredibly excited voice.

“So you’re letting him walk around the active cases as well? Can I see your contract? Has he signed NDA not to babble to anyone about them?

“Our agreement was oral,” Sherlock imparted without looking up from the microscope. There was no need to add that the deal was a bottle of wine for free access and that he wasn’t actually paying Molly anything, well, except for with his advice.

“I thought the labs for students and the rest of the kids and public folk were somewhere else anyway,” DI Lestrade ignored Sherlock’s words. “I know you want to help everyone, Molly, but you can’t let just any amateur walk around police work. Especially without proper paperwork.”

“Detective Inspector, let me assure you that your active cases are of no concern to me. Right now I’m successfully working on something that the police has failed to do for many years. While the cases themselves might be, as Molly here puts it, obscure, they deserve to be solved by a competent party. On the other hand, the majority of your active cases is so mundane and obvious that I actively refuse to get involved with them in any way. I hope that clears the situation to you and please be so kind and stop disturbing me from my work,” Sherlock stressed.

“Listen, you posh wanker. I don’t care whether you’re curing cancer or solving a hundred-year-old robbery, if you don’t have the proper paperwork, you can’t be here interfering with active police cases.”

That made Sherlock think about his reply, if only perhaps for a blink of an eye.

“Obviously I can.”

“You fucking cannot!” shouted Lestrade in reply, shocking both himself and Molly who jumped at the sound. That made the DI immediately looking remorseful as soon as he noticed her covering.

“For God’s sake!” Sherlock hissed. “What if you instead of bitching around made your move already? You recently sent your marriage to the scrapheap judging by the lack of the ring and the untanned strip on your finger. I can see your wife moved out from your house by the badly ironed shirt and crease on your trousers but you have tried and your perfume is so strong it announced your arrival 10 minutes in advance so you clearly want to impress somebody. You visit the morgue personally even though you don’t have to. She,” he pointed to Molly, “is wearing lipstick and makeup during the day but not for the evening shifts, therefore it is not for me but for you.”

There was a stunned silence, Lestrade gaped in shock and Molly turned beetroot red with embarrassment and was close to tears.

“There was no reason to be so cruel, Sherlock,” Molly whimpered. “I think you should leave. Right now. I’ll put away your experiments so you can pick up everything and your notes later.”

Sherlock looked at Molly’s distressed face and Lestrade’s frown. He decided to leave everything be, put on his coat and, coat hem flapping behind him, briskly stepped outside, so lost in his thoughts not even pouring rain reached him.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: memories of being bullied. If it bothers you, just skip the first part of this chapter.

Sherlock stood on the pavement in front of the Barts, fists and teeth clenched, heart pounding. His vision blurred. The world was rendered to shades of black and grey. He started walking. He didn’t know where he was going. His legs carried him through the city with only enough mental presence left not to be run down by a car in heavy London traffic.

He descends into the darkness of the basement floors of his Mind Palace. He doesn’t try to turn the lights on, there aren’t any there. He walks slowly through the corridor. It isn’t visited often, the air is stale and stinks.

Something shoves him in the chest.

_Freak!_

Another shove in the back.

_Nobody asked you! Shut your mouth! You monster!_

Another. A hand yanks out his hair, hard. The pain is sharp, he has to tilt his head back.

_That’s not true, you will pay for this, you little shit!_

A kick. And another. Giggling. He loses his balance.

_Show him! Who does he think he is?_

More giggling. More kicks. He is lying on the floor now, curled up, protecting his head. A kick in the ribs. Every breath is pure pain.

_Look at him! What do you have to say now, genius?_

Suddenly, he can’t breathe. There is cold water in his nose, in his mouth, in his eyes. He tries to fight but something heavy holds him down. He can’t move his hands. He is kicking his legs.

Light. Air. He gulps it. He can’t scream.

Water again. The pressure on his chest is heavy, his lungs are burning. He suddenly knows with certainty that they aren’t going to let him up. Cold fear runs rapidly through his limbs, makes them rigid. He is never going to see his parents again. Mycroft. Redbeard. Do they also think he is a freak? Has he hurt them? He surely has. He sees dark spots. His body ceases obeying him.

Light. Air! He is lying on the floor again, trying to inhale but his chest is too tight.

_Run, you idiot, we almost killed him! - If he says something! - He won’t._

Sherlock finally managed to suck the air in. His chest was heaving. He was at Barts again. His subconscious need for John led him back here. He stumbled into the back courtyard. He could see the light in the library window, so John was still there. Sherlock’s reasoning was sluggish but he knew the sun is low so it must be long after five. He couldn’t go in. He disappointed John so terribly as he had disappointed so many people in his life. He isn’t worthy of him. He thought it would finally work but it couldn’t. It’s never going to work, with anybody. He is always saying such bad and hurtful things. He is a monster.

He leaned against the wall and slowly slid down. Another kind of darkness, void and voiceless, claimed him.

*

It had been raining cats and dogs all day and while every proper Londoner was accustomed to this kind of weather, John was very annoyed by everyone dragging their wet umbrellas into the library. It meant he had to stay overtime to wipe the floor, because _of course_ the cleaning lady was supposed to have a day off the next day, so he had to make everything presentable for morning opening. Unless he wanted to get up an hour early and drag his ass to work and then clean, which was a pretty definite no in his dictionary, with the addition of some profanities.

Finally, everything was sparkling clean and it was time to go. John grabbed a spare umbrella (it is amazing how many things people leave behind at libraries), a bit wobbly and creaky but it would do and hopefully he wouldn’t be soaked to the bone before he got home. He took out the trash and made a beeline for the dustbins. Then he quickly crossed the courtyard, aiming for the side-entrance the service workers used but before he could reach it, he spotted a heap of a person by the wall. The doctor in him took charge.

“Are you alr- Jesus, Sherlock! What are you doing here?” John knelt by the other man. “You are soaked! You’ll catch your death!”

Sherlock didn’t reply, he didn’t even move. John quickly checked his pulse and breath and, relieved, searched him for injuries, finding none. He grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him firmly. Sherlock groaned.

“Do you hear me?”

Sherlock nodded weakly.

“Are you drugged?”

“I’m clean today,” came a quiet reply. _Today?_ John frowned.

“Alright, we have to get you somewhere warm. Can you stand?”

Sherlock managed to get on his feet, albeit quite wobbly. He was shaking badly. John supported him from the side and let him through the entrance. They took a cab to John’s flat. Sherlock was silent for the whole journey. The driver wasn’t happy with the drenched seats but John placated him with a big tip.

When they got to John’s, Sherlock stood in the middle of the tiny room like a bedraggled kitten. John instinctively went for simple instructions.

“Give me the coat.” Sherlock shrugged it off. It was heavy with all the water. John dug up a spare towel and handed it to Sherlock. “Go take a shower. I’ll find some dry clothes for you.”

Without a word, Sherlock disappeared in the bathroom and soon the sound of running water could be heard. Satisfied, John went to put the kettle on. When he opened the fridge, he realized it was quite empty save for some old cheese and ordered takeaway. Then he rummaged through his small wardrobe. He found some warm socks, old sweatpants and a t-shirt, hopefully big enough for the taller man. He knocked on Sherlock, informing him that he left the clothes by the bathroom door.

Sherlock took his time with the shower so when he stepped out of the bathroom, a heap of wet clothes in his hands, the takeaway just arrived. John waved at Sherlock to put his clothes on the wall-mounted dryer in the bathroom and went to get the food. They sat on the old sofa. Sherlock was still shaking a bit and John put an offensively orange blanket over him.

“This will warm you up. Are you ready to talk about it?”

“If I do, you’ll kick me out.”

“What have you done, Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, visibly distressed.

John sighed. “Alright, we are going to eat first, you need something warm in your belly.”

Sherlock frowned at the food.

“You are going to eat this,” John said firmly in his no-nonsense voice. The order worked somehow and Sherlock tentatively took a bite, which must have woken up his hunger because the container was empty in record time. John ate slower, observing his mad genius. _His?! Where did THAT come from?_

“Now, I promise not to kick you out. Are you going to tell me?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing.

“That’s okay, Sherlock,” John said softly. “You’ll tell me when you are ready. Let’s put you to bed.”

John had only one duvet but luckily it was quite large, so they both managed to fit under it after some shuffling. Sherlock was lying on his back, looking at the ceiling. John lay down on his side and observed the man. His eyes were wide open and shadows accentuated his cheekbones. It was a sight for sore eyes, John would just prefer to have him here under completely different circumstances.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “Try to sleep.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and closed his eyes. John did so as well. They had been lying like that for about half an hour and John was slowly drifting to sleep when Sherlock spoke.

“John. I…” he exhaled shakily.

“What is it?” John found his hand in the darkness and squeezed it reassuringly. “Tell me.”

“I’ve upset Molly and she asked me to leave. I was frustrated from earlier and there was this detective and I said something I shouldn’t and I have disappointed you.”

“I know. And no, you haven’t.”

Sherlock turned to his side abruptly and peered at John.

“How could you know that?”

John smiled. “I know, you daft man, because Molly called me and told me everything. They listened to your advice. Finally.”

“What?”

“He made his move and they kissed,” John chuckled. “You were right, he is right in the middle of a divorce. But he thought he doesn’t have a chance with Molly. When you left, he comforted her and well, you know...”

“Oh,” Sherlock couldn’t wrap his head around that. “But I… That wasn’t my intention, I just wanted him to shut up and I did what you told me not to, so I disappointed you.”

“Yes, you said something you shouldn’t have but Molly told me that he was quite harsh with you. Seems that our detective saw you as a rival. I kinda don’t blame him. So, as much as you shouldn’t have said this, I understand why you did it.”

“You are not mad at me,” Sherlock stated, incredulously.

“Not a bit.”

John reached out and put a curl, which fell over Sherlock’s eyes, back behind his ear. “Will you be able to sleep now?”

“Yes. Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

*

John sat abruptly on the bed, breathing rapidly, heart hammering in his chest. He had these nightmares almost every night but it wasn’t getting any easier. It took him a moment to remember that he is not alone. Sherlock was sitting up as well. He observed John with a worried expression.

“You were screaming.”

“Yes, well, sorry for waking you. Just another bloody nightmare.”

Sherlock made a tiny, tentative move towards John. “Can I touch you? I have been reading about PTSD and they say one should ask beforehand not to be counter-productive.”

John stared at him. Sherlock had been reading about his condition? Because of him?

“Yes,” he said in a small voice.

Sherlock inched closer and put his arms around John. At first, it was a bit awkward but then John decided that as a comforted party he could do what he had wanted to do for a long time and buried his nose in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. It felt every bit as good as he had imagined.

He felt Sherlock’s hands stroking his back. Sherlock also leaned his head and was now breathing into John’s hair. John’s erratic heartbeat gradually slowed down. He hadn’t felt this safe for a very long time. One of Sherlock’s hands found a place on the back of John’s neck. John liked its reassuring heaviness.

Then Sherlock shifted and John found himself breathing against Sherlock’s chest. He was enveloped in a warm embrace. He snuggled into it. He felt something akin to a kiss in his hair and smiled into Sherlock’s collarbone. He nosed his way up on Sherlock’s long neck, the tip of his nose hitting Sherlock’s chin as he slowly raised his head. Now would probably be the time to stare romantically into each other’s eyes but John ditched it in favour of going directly for Sherlock’s lips. The way Sherlock had been snuggling him back gave him hope that the kiss wouldn’t screw everything up between them.

John heard Sherlock’s tiny gasp of surprise and then the genius caught up. John kissed him hungrily, suddenly needing to feel he is alive. He ran his hands through Sherlock’s curls and held them firmly as he licked his way to Sherlock’s mouth. John felt the long fingers digging into his sides, almost painfully, but the pressure was welcome.

Sherlock broke the kiss gasping for breath but immediately recaptured John’s lips. This time, it was exploratory, he nipped on John’s lips carefully with his teeth, their noses touching gently. John moved to kiss Sherlock’s face, nose and the perpetual frown between his eyebrows. Then they joined their foreheads, resting, just basking in each other’s presence.

“You’re pulse is sped-up. Your pupils are dilated,” Sherlock observed, his analytic self kicking back in.

“Well, I really enjoy your company. Just in case it wasn’t clear,” John chuckled.

“No one ever does. You are weird. However, I seem to tolerate you surprisingly well.”

John laughed: “That’s as good as it gets.”

“I really enjoy this,” Sherlock gestured at their mouths, “too.”

“So do I.”

They lay back down, just holding each other. Suddenly, John began to laugh.

“What?”

“Do you know what day is today?”

“No?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day.”

Sherlock snorted. “In that case, I take everything I just said back and I will say it tomorrow anew because this is a terrible cliché.”

“Nah. You can just wait,” John peered at the alarm clock, “half an hour.”


	7. Chapter Seven

When Sherlock woke up in the morning, he found John looking at him with revering expression as if he couldn’t believe he was really there. Sherlock felt the same way. He couldn’t understand that John hadn’t kicked him out, that he wasn’t mad at him and Jesus, were they really snogging like teenagers? He blushed.

John smiled at him: “Hi there. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock had to think about it a little and the answer surprised him. “Happy.”

John’s smile widened. “Do you have any plans for today? You will probably need to go home.”

“Oh. Err… not exactly,” Sherlock mumbled. “I meant to tell you yesterday but then all Hell broke loose, so I quite haven’t got a chance.”

“What happened?”

“I got evicted.”

John raised both eyebrows. “On the spot? That had to be a serious offence. What have you done?!” he asked sternly and crossed his arms, but it was no heat in that.

Sherlock ducked his head. “You may say that…”

“I‘m waiting…”

Sherlock realized he wouldn’t go away with it and spilt the beans. John just shook his head.

“Well, you can stay here for a while, of course. But no experiments and no sound effects, understood?”

“Thank you, John, I would be grateful. I may have an alternative though,” Sherlock searched for his phone. “Meantime, I have to go to the morgue to pick up my bag. Would you come with me?”

John nodded. Sherlock dialled a number. “Mrs Hudson, I’m calling you to tell you I’ve decided to accept your proposal, in case it’s still on the table. I can come around at noon if it is convenient for you? Great. See you there.”

He tossed the phone away and sprang from the bed. “Right. Time to get dressed properly.”

“I don’t know, I kinda enjoy the sight of you in too short sweatpants and fluffy socks,” John laughed and had a towel thrown at his head for his insolence.

*

In the morgue, Molly was busy examining a new addition to their corpse collection. She waved them in. Sherlock was shifting uncomfortably, his coat was still a bit wet and he was aware of the residues of mud that he couldn’t brush off properly. He was also feeling weird being here after the yesterday scene. John elbowed Sherlock into his side and gave him a pointed look.

“Oh. Molly... Err… I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” Sherlock mumbled.

“It’s OK,” she smiled at him. Sherlock nodded, relieved and bent over to take out his bag from under the desk, unintentionally offering a quite fine view to John. At that moment, Detective Inspector Lestrade walked in, coffees in both hands.

“Hello,” he boomed. Sherlock jumped visibly and bumped his head on the desk edge. He straightened up, rubbing the top of his head.

“Oh, you again,” Lestrade fumed but it sounded good-natured. He handed one coffee to Molly, smiling at her.

“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said primly.

“Listen, genius, Molly told me about you. This,” he gestured to the woman body lying on the table, “is our new case. True locked room mystery. I’ll tell you what we know and you can show what’s in you, deal?”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “Alright?”

“She was found in a locked secure room in a jewellery shop. Single fatal wound, she cracked her head on the table edge. Here’s the address and a few pictures of the crime scene,” he took them out of an ordinarily-looking manila envelope and spread them out on a table. “They’re calling it an accident, except the angle is weirdly off. There’s literally nothing she could have tripped over. So how did she die? Who killed her?”

Sherlock lifted the pictures and examined them closely. Then he went to the body, took a foldable magnifying glass out of his pocket and began to check the victim’s hands and face. He spent the most time observing her lips in great detail. When he started sniffing her neck, Lestrade frowned and wanted to say something but John stopped him with the hand on his arm.

The clock kept on ticking and Molly had to stop herself from biting her nails nervously because it would just distract Sherlock from thinking. John was watching the genius move around the room between the corpse and the notes once, twice, then held back Lestrade with a single look, because it was not time to ask questions yet. Both Molly and John were familiar with Sherlock’s need for his mental space before delivering an answer and wished for the best results at this moment. _Because if this works, maybe one of Sherlock’s dreams could come true_ , John mused.

Eventually, Sherlock stepped away from the corpse and smiled smugly, before promptly rattling off his deduction:

“This house sits on the network of disused Underground tunnels used during WWII as a shelter for the government offices. The tunnels had entrances inside of the houses that were rented by the government through some intermediary. It was vital not to be seen to enter any underground facility because it could have tipped off traitors. If you take a look at the walls in the secure room, you will find out some hidden corridor, that’s for sure. She wasn’t alone in that room, she had to be on the date.”

“How can you know that?”

“Do you see the lipstick? When you examine it carefully, you will see a different shade of red on the bottom lip and her teeth. She was kissing another woman. I bet if Molly takes a sample for analysis, she will find a different composition of the individual lipsticks. Also, her perfume is not a single one, it’s a mixture of two as they rubbed each other’s hands and necks. I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on my website – you should look it up.”

“Huh. And the motive? Jealousy?”

“Possibly. Given the place, I presume a business deal had gone wrong. I would check moves on her bank account and the cash flow. I don’t have enough data, however, I guess the victim and her mistress had a deal, diamonds possibly, then something went wrong and the victim wanted to sell the other short. Her lover knew about the hidden entrance, maybe used it for the secret meetings with the victim. This time, they argued, one pushed at another, the victim fell. Her lover panicked and left through the hidden corridor.”

"Why do you think it’s diamonds?”

“That shop has certification for diamond evaluation. There are only several places that do that.”

“Alright, so how do we find the other woman now? If she came from the tunnels, it could have been from bloody anywhere.”

"If you check security cameras of place where the victim was, she must have been on a date with the woman before. I would start there if I were you.”

All of them stared at Sherlock with open mouths. John’s eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed.

Lestrade took a minute to answer his phone and made a few confirming grunts into it.

“The tunnels check out. One of our PCs has just filed a report about them, an architectonic marvel.” He checked his phone and continued: “And the victim was found on camera having a romantic dinner with another woman. Your story checks out. My guys have been on this for 36 hours now and you figured it out under ten minutes. How the hell did you do that?”

“I simply observed.”

John stepped in and placed his hand on Sherlock’s forearm.

“That was absolutely brilliant. Inspector Lestrade, I wish you good luck with your case but I’m afraid I promised Sherlock to help him move into his new place and I just got a text from the movers and we have to go...” he babbled.

Sherlock looked at him questioningly because he knew John had just lied to them but he was curious what John is up to.

“In that case, let’s not waste time,” he nodded.

Lestrade was making phone to instruct his people, so Molly just bid them goodbye and watched them leave the morgue together.

The minute they were out of sight, John pulled Sherlock into an empty room, which happened to be a storage space for chairs and tables near the lecture hall.

“I’m going to assault you now,” was the only warning Sherlock got before John pulled him closer by the lapels of his weathered coat and kissed him with such eagerness Sherlock dropped the bag he was holding in his hand.

John’s hands moved under the coat, rubbing at Sherlock’s chest and sides.

“You...Are...Brilliant,” John breathed between each press of his mouth that Sherlock reciprocated enthusiastically.

“John,” he gasped and moved to grasp John’s head, to cup his face in his large warm hands.

They continued making out as if their life depended on it until John’s hands moved lower and he squeezed Sherlock’s round arse. A startled muffled yelp interrupted their snogging and they split up.

“Oh wow,” John breathed heavily, his cheeks red, arousal clearly written all over his face and body.

“Let me first clarify that I did enjoy this. But what brought this on?” Sherlock inquired, his own cheeks and expression matching John’s.

John just grinned mischievously. No way he was going to reveal that it was the displays of Sherlock’s competence that affected him so.

“Will you accompany me to see the flat then?”

John nodded: “Lead the way.”

*

In the cab on the way to Marylebone, Sherlock told John why Mrs Hudson offered him a special deal. It made John alternate between shaking his head and giggling uncontrollably. However, the lady greeting them at 221B Baker Street was nothing John had been imagining and he immediately liked her motherly attitude towards Sherlock. She made them tea while they were exploring the flat. Hired goons were just leaving, having unloaded the boxes with Sherlock’s belongings.

“Mycroft’s people, don’t talk to them, they might eat your brain, John, and then use your corpse to smuggle spies and secrets abroad,” Sherlock told John in a mock whisper. He whirled in the middle of the sitting room. “So, what do you think?”

“I think it could be very nice,” John looked around, “very nice indeed.”

“There is one more bedroom upstairs,” Mrs Hudson chimed in from the doorway, “but I guess you won’t be needing that.”

“Of course we won’t need two bedrooms,” Sherlock confirmed.

John frowned. “Of course... what? I have my own place.”

“But isn’t this much better? How about you move in with me? The rent will certainly be much better if we share!” he shrugged nonchalantly.

John wasn’t fooled by Sherlock’s flippant behaviour. He went to him and looked into his eyes properly. They were wide and full of hope. He put his hand on the side of Sherlock’s neck and, stroking his jawbone with his thumb, asked quietly: “You want me to live with you? As your boyfriend?”

Sherlock stilled, he didn’t seem to breathe at all. “Would you?”

“Yes, you git. I definitely will.”

**THE END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks :) thank you for reading and for leaving such lovely comments. We hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as we enjoyed writing it.


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